


Will Graham's Return To Lecter Castle

by TheCourtJester485



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Dark Will Graham, Lecter Castle, M/M, Memories, Minor Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, POV Will Graham, Past Relationship(s), Post-Fall (Hannibal), Will Graham Being Will Graham, Will Graham Doesn't Need Help, Will graham is being dramatic, Will is in Lithuania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24507586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourtJester485/pseuds/TheCourtJester485
Summary: Some time has past since the death of The Great Red Dragon, since the fall-his wounds having healed, Will finds himself revisiting a place he never thought he'd see again: Lecter Castle. The question is, why is he there?
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 11





	1. Retracing His Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome!
> 
> Been working on this for a while and I hope you enjoy going through it.
> 
> Happy reading!

The sky appears a sickly grey as the infantile hours of night sweep through the landscape, shrouding everything in blanket of shadows. A mildewy taste lingers on his tongue, faint but nonetheless noticeable after each intake of breath through his nostrils; the fallen leaves and vegetation surrounding him coated with a thin sheet of moisture from recent rainfall, now mostly having ceased–the odd few drops here and there fall against his shoulders and forehead, trickling down his temple, down to his jaw before they too, fall from him.

Slowly nearing his destination, the ground beneath him is cold beneath his boots, the depressions of his treads instantly becoming visible in the soft and muddied surface; patches of grass previously undisturbed now lay crushed and bent from his passing over them. All is quiet in his surroundings: no birds chirp here, nor hares burrowing in the small mounds scattered throughout, hidden amongst the overgrowth, squirrels don’t scramble up the nearby tree trunks and foxes dare not trot about the field looking for a meal to present itself–the only animal he’s seen so far was a young deer scurrying back into the woods an hour or so earlier after nibbling on the late Autumn grass. Besides the consistent crunching and squelching of his shoes against the dirt, no other sound graces his ears.

He’s closer now–so, very close. Even though the path ahead of him is murky with mist, iron gates slowly begin to materialize through it, revealing themselves little by little until it’s clear, and he stands directly in front of them. The thick iron bars are still eroding with age, more so than when he first visited this place little over four years ago; at the time, he gathered it would be the first _and_ last time he would visit the ancestral home baring the Lecter’s insignia. In their saddened state both gates wear the crest proudly in their centres like a shield, as if protecting themselves from further loss. Looking down, they’re lacking a padlock and chain, unlike before. His hand grasps one on the bars, pushing it open with gentle force, the awful grinding creaks of rusted hinges fill his ears after letting them swing open; seeming louder given the haunting quiet he’s been subjected too thus far, though that same quiet is quick to return.

Truth be told, he was certain he’d never see these grounds again. However, this is as good a place as any for what he needs to do. Indeed, you might assume the sea surrounding the bluff of the cliff house might've been more fitting, taking into account what happened after The Great Red Dragon’s demise–but, Will Graham knew, at least in part, this is would suit just fine.

There he stands for a long moment, his gaze aiming up at the multitude of windows decorating the crumbling walls of the once beautiful Gothic architecture; most of them cracked and bleary with age. His previous visit was with the sole intention of seeking out Hannibal Lecter; in a way, this is just like that, only the reasoning behind it is different. Retracing his steps enables a welcome sense of clarity to wash over him for the first time in weeks–it’s almost like he’s not alone here even though he very much is, at least physically speaking. The unkempt path he walks down hasn’t changed much: it still had an all manor of various sized roots spreading across it like poisoned veins beneath the skin, while weeds on either side of the dulled gravel threaten to consume the path alongside everything else. Even the stone walls of the castle has ivy creeping it’s way to the very top–he pictures there being nothing but the plants in due time now that Chiyoh no longer resides here to maintain the property like she had for countless years.

A subtle feeling of melancholy grows in his heart, though he doesn’t know exactly why–his chest rises and falls with lengthy intervals between breaths; all he hears is his heart, each beat slow and hard as an emptiness begins to burrow inside of him. That’s when he stops, turning his attention toward the Lecter family graveyard. Like everything else within the grounds–the castle, and all it’s history, lays forgotten and dying in it’s abandonment.

“If Hannibal’s home were to have lungs breathing life into it, tears from a winters sorrow would weep from atop the fountain instead…” he utters to himself, continuing on his way.


	2. Beneath The Grounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will undergoes the next step of his journey back to Lecter Castle.

Graham makes his way to the back of the residence where he finds that same fountain. Fireflies dot around the garden like dancing stars of amber, looking beautifully abnormal in the way they hover nearby. Approaching the piece, a small handprint of a child’s lay printed on the stone ring. He sits on the edge and glides a gloveless hand over it, the fine coarse surface icy beneath his fingers. The thought of it being left by Hannibal Lecter as a boy crosses his mind briefly before assuming it to be the younger sister’s instead: that of Mischa. His gaze flickers to the hollow of the fountain, a dozen dark, empty snail shells in place of where water had once been. From a distance, you’d be forgiven to think it’s soil.

Closing his eyes he waits for the pendulum to still. Then, the soft, distant laughter of children fill the space around him, their cheerful voices echoing around in his imagination; the innocence of two playing in the lavish green of the garden beside the pouring water of the fountain–siblings without a care in the world. He smells the freshness of the daisies, daffodils and various bluebells scattered about, the taste of spring air coating his tongue, the warmth of the golden sun beaming down upon his face–this place used to be something akin to happiness and intrigue. Now, it’s nothing but a memory.

Exposing his eyes to the reality he chose to re-visit, his hand shifts away from from the withered imprint. Swallowing a gulp of air, his brow knits together, the children’s voices suddenly vanishing. Graham stands once again, leaving to find the back entrance to the wine cellar–not looking back.

Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out the crowbar he brought, breaking off the rusted padlock with a metallic clunk. A narrowing blackness stares back at him once having opened the folding doors. There’s a strange comfort in darkness he’s learned to know all too well over the years, no longer fearing what lurks in the shadows of both his reality and unreality; having grown accustomed to the monsters and other torments within either. To Will Graham, they’re almost friendly...

Equipping his pocket torch, he descends down the steps leading into the cellar, his goal still present in his mind. The beam of blue-grey light cut through the dark, disturbed dust particles flowing within it like a stream of lightly coloured specks sifting in the musty air. The room is just like he remembered; a size bigger than that of his old home in Wolf-Trap, surrounded by crates and barrels of expensive unopened wines from a great many different periods (which he didn’t doubt would’ve been served at the family dinner parties and annual celebrations). He wonders what Hannibal Lecter’s parents might’ve been like, or his aunt and uncle for that matter–he’s curious if _they_ instilled an appreciation of wine into their son for when he grew older: not that they would ever find out.

Cobwebs litter almost everything, made all the more prominent from the dust smothering them. He points the light to his left and right, taking his time before switching sides. A rat scurries past his foot, he doesn’t flinch, only raising it up as not to step on it. Glass cracks beneath his feet. Rooting himself in the centre of the room, his light finds it’s way to the memento he’d left behind four years prior: _The_ _Fire_ _fly Man_ still hanging from his roped supports, Chiyoh never took him down. A morbid curiosity glimmers in his eye as he approaches. The glass decorating the ‘wings’ still reflected the glow marvellously while the head is now nothing more than a skull, totally devoid of flesh and eyes, though teeth and patches of blackened hair still remain on part of the cranium.

He arches a single brow, a smile forming in the creases of his eyes before diverting his focus away to the opposite end of the room, glossing over to the battered prison cell. Amongst the sea of broken glass and wine corks, traces of dried blood still stain the concrete floor. The gate of the cell is wide open, holding nothing and no-one inside. Breathing a tired sigh, he turns around, the beam traversing around the room. He does a double-take when he finally see’s it, _there you are_ , he thinks. Propping the end of the torch in his mouth he pushes aside the old wooden crates and unused canvases. He brushes off the webs coating the top of the two blank headstones; he only needs one. Before picking it up, he looks around for a tool, something used for scribing into masonry–he opens several draws of the nearby workbench, coming up empty aside from aged yellow sheets written in a language he doesn’t understand, sliding them shut. It’s then he eyes a tool box lingering beside it on the floor. Luckily for Graham, there’s one perfectly intact inside. Before leaving, he took a moment to scour the wine selections. Once he’d found the perfect one he busted open a crate, taking a bottle and throwing the crowbar to the floor, no longer of any use to him. With everything he needs, he manoeuvrers around the broken glass and other obstacles. Heading back up the stairs, he wanders back towards the Lecter family graveyard.


	3. A Final Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's visit is almost at an end; but one last matter needs to be tended to.

It’s grown darker now, the sky no longer an ill-grey but that of asphalt; the mist also having dissipated as well as any likelihood of rainfall. The stone leans against the half-wall topped by iron spears and swirls while he ponders where to begin. Surrounded by the graves of the dead, Graham slips off his satchel, careful not to damage it’s contents: both delicate and valuable. Tearing away the vines and plants absorbing the headstones, he’s determined to find it–he knew already of the one patch of earth not yet having been filled beside another name–if he can discover it’s place, his task is almost finished. Several minutes pass, quickly becoming irritated as his breathing grew faster and shorter, carelessness beginning to form in his movements through his search. Consequently, his hand snags itself on the monstrous thorns. He stares at the blood for a moment, flexing the digits before continuing to rip away the invasive foliage; calm again, though a dull ache forms in his gut.

There it is, finally.

'MISCHA LECTER, MYLIMA'

A weary breath escapes him, the mans curls looming over an eye, he doesn’t swipe it away. Taking a moment to observe before kicking away the last handful of dead crusting leaves from the earth. He goes back for the blank headstone stolen from the wine cellar. Alongside Mischa’s, he digs a moat with his hands, wedging the slab in place and smoothing the soil back around it; handling it made his fingers sore from the little chips and jagged craters lining the edges. He takes his time with the engraving,

'HANNIBAL LECTER, PRISIMINĖ'

Opening the satchel once more he takes out an object covered by a crimson blanket. Graham unveils an urn made from steel. He eases it into the ground without a word, scraping the soil over it with the dirt clinging beneath his nails. Stepping back, his hands conjoin, hanging by his front as if paying his respects–even hooding over his eyes for a moment. A gentle pressure forms on his right shoulder; five fingers and a palm now resting there,

“Hello, Will,” the man says, calmly as ever. Graham stays silent, a subtle raise at the corner of his mouth as he stares, “you brought me home. Am I right to believe this is your farewell?”

“You’re in my head, Doctor. You tell me.”

Lecter smirks, gaze shifting to the graves as his hand falls away, landing itself in the pocket of his slacks, “I couldn’t return here in life. You knew this, and yet here we are–or, here _you_ are, technically.”

“Bedelia told you once, _‘_ _all_ _our endings_ _can be found_ _in our beginnings’_. That being said, I figured you had no other family; and if _ever_ you were _good_ , your time with Mischa was it.”

“Quite,” Lecter says, taking a step in front to look at the names carved in stone, one withered and the other not, “all things considered, I wouldn’t of expected you to come here. If I were alive, you may of wished to see me surprised.” Graham stands beside him, “This was the only place you could make for me.”

“Yes.” he says, barely above a whisper.

Lecter’s head turns, the scarred man delays a returning glance, “The lamb became more than a lamb in the end. Tell me, where will you go?”

“Wherever the stream takes me,” he smiles, voice softening, “ _goodbye_ –Hannibal.”

“Goodbye, Will.”

Graham’s eyes don’t follow as his former friend and enemy turns to leave, his weightless steps baring little sound other than the soles of his shoes brushing against the grass. Before doing the same, _ex_ -special agent Will Graham takes the wine bearing the Lecter brand and leaves it between the headstones. Unsure of what to do next, he too makes his departure; walking out the gates, changed and alone, leaving his past behind him to start anew, wherever that may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. 'prisiminė' is meant to translate as 'remembered' in Lithuanian and 'mylima' is meant to be loved.  
> Thanks for reading! :-)


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